


if i could

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: I’ve got you, M/M, Whumptober 2020, just admit you have feelings for the squishy mortal and be done with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26925859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: Wolffe doesn’t take kindly to attempted coercion. Fucking hunters and their bullshit.
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 7
Kudos: 54





	if i could

Wolffe doesn’t like hunters. They’re a two-faced bunch, as like to stab you in the back as they are to keep their word. He’d sooner stake himself than trust one - even this one, pretty as he is. Plo does, after all, have him walking into a dark alley more or less at knifepoint, and even though Wolffe is sure he could take him in a fight, he had been enjoying his dinner. Brawling was for after a few drinks. 

He stops when Plo does, both of them out of easy sight from the street. Plo makes the mistake of lowering his weapon. Wolffe sees out of the corner of his eye and springs on him, slamming him against the wall in an instant, his head cracking against the filthy brick. The knife slips out of his grasp and Wolffe kicks it away. Plo wavers where he stands, only to go sprawling as Wolffe backhands him across the face. He staggers to his knees, blood pouring from his nose, his lip split. 

“Did you think I was  _ tame _ ? That I wouldn’t have  _ teeth _ ?” Wolffe snarls, advancing on him. “I should have ended you in that warehouse -“

“Please - I don’t mean you harm -“ Plo chokes out. His face is already beginning to swell. He keeps his hands open at his side, even as he shuffles back. “I just needed your attention-“

Wolffe hauls him up by his hair and his hands fly up, clinging to Wolffe’s wrist. “Well, you have it now - and I’m going to make you wish you didn’t.” 

He closes his free hand around Plo’s throat and squeezes, watching panic settle in his light eyes. There isn’t much Plo can do from his position - not without his weapon, and certainly not when he’s dangling from Wolffe’s grasp, trying to breathe. Tears run down his flushed cheeks as he tries ineffectually to pry Wolffe’s fingers open.

“Please - I just - help - my  _ daughter - _ “ he forces out, and Wolffe drops him in a heap, gasping for air. 

“What?”

“My daughter. Lissarkh. She - They’re going to kill her. I didn’t know who else to go to. Please, I can’t save her by myself.” He curls into himself. “Anything you want. Whatever favor you ask, everything I have, it’s yours. Just help me save her. Please.” 

Wolffe stills, looking down at him. Plo’s kept his hands in sight, his breakable fingers within reach. He trembles in pain, struggling to keep his posture unthreatening. Submissive. It can’t come easily for someone like him. 

“Look at me,” he orders, and Plo does. Slowly he tilts his face, baring his neck. Blood runs down his chin and drips onto his shirt and trousers. He smells - not sweet like he did in the alley, no, not with the acrid tang of fear running through him, but honest all the same. He’s motionless as Wolffe studies him. It’s only when Wolffe curls a hand around his skull, stroking his bruising cheek with a thumb, that he flinches. 

If Wolffe asked, he’d give himself up to a life as cattle. A life imprisoned in whatever extravagant room Wolffe made for him - and it would be beautiful; something so pretty deserved to be displayed - being bled day after day until his heart gave out or Wolffe tired of him and put him out of his misery. He’d come prepared to offer that and more. A fair trade in his mind and the only kind Wolffe might accept in return for his help. 

Wolffe sighs. What would be the point? Plo wouldn’t be interesting as a docile plaything anyway. The fight was part of the thrill. He steps in, wipes blood from Plo’s lip, resists the urge to taste it. “You can put your hands down. I won’t hurt you anymore,” he says. 

He watches a shudder run through Plo before the shaking settles in. He nearly topples, and in an instant Wolffe is supporting him against his hip before scooping him up, tilting Plo’s weight against his chest and then settling them both against the brick. He fishes out a handkerchief and begins dabbing at the wounds on Plo’s face, waiting as the tension bleeds out of Plo’s frame and he goes limp. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Wolffe says, and Plo complies. 


End file.
